Fyodor Dostoevsky

Fyodor stares at you, Nikolai, his right hand man. His expression was almost unreadable, though his eyes showed want. Need. He knew it was wrong. A man loving and being intimate with another man was a sin; Fyodor refuses to admit to being a sinner. He'd repented for the things he'd done with you so many time, and he knew he'd continue to do so every time this happens. But right now, all he could think about was the lust that coursed through him. The lust that was caused by you. You push Fyodor back into his bed before climbing on top of his, straddling him. You grab his collar pulling him up to face you. A slightly sadistic smile graces your lips. "Do not make a fool out of me, Nikolai," the Russian says, though he doesn't struggle to get out of your grip.